Funny Dreams With You
by Rubywings732
Summary: Two men, who are best friends mind you. Wake up in the same bed, un-answered questions solved this morning. By the well known Sherlock Holmes. (Implied Johnlock) Disclaimer: All rights go to BBC's Show and the Original Writer's of the most fabulous Sherlock Holmes, or any laughter this might create


Okay, so.

Sleeping with John was a dumb idea. Nothing sexual about it, just to share the bed for the night really. No, scrap dumb, Fucking stupid. Insane. Crazy enough to be deemed crazy. I'm sitting on the edge of bed. Just in my trousers. My trousers. Where's my shirt anyways? I looked around. Oh, there it is. It was draped across the door handle. John. John Hamish Watson. Turned over, only with his red pants on. Strong stomach muscles protrude through the thin sheets that covered him. Peace full. His eyes closed. Cute. I paused thinking to myself. No wrong. That was a weird thought to think.  
>Best friend's don't think about that.<p>

Well. Until now, that is. Jesus Christ.

While I'm staring dumbfounded at my best friend like trying to solve a simple game of_ cluedo_, John turns his head on the pillow with a sleepy snort. Seriously. He's fast asleep. The last thing I remember was us both fumbling in from a case and now he's doing the guy version of Sleeping Beauty in my bed. The _drooling_ guy version, I realise. My mouth kinda stretches in a weird angle as I peer at the thin drizzle of drool creeping out of the corner of John's mouth. He's drooling on my pillow.

No. Okay. _Look,_ I want to snap at him. Make him jolt out of his sleep faster than a projectiling bullet. Augh, bullet meaning gun. John's gun. I smacked my cheek. 'Stop it.' I told myself. _Your my work partner and flat mate and now you're drooling on my pillow? _Not cool. Not kosher. Not _normal_.

I realise in that same instant that I might as well be the pot that calls John curled back, his hair all tossed out. Spikey. Hedgehog, oh no. I pulled both hands to my face and groaned.. Staring at my best friend. While thinking these thoughts. Mainly because I bolted out of bed the moment it struck me what the hell was going on. I lick my lips and swallow back a sudden stab of panic. My mouth dry. I dart my eyes to the floor for a second, at the scrunched up trousers and jumper that both belong to said man.

The whole night has passed in a furious, bizarre blur. What was said, did I invite him in here? I almost can't remember who said what first anymore. It might've been me. Or possibly John. Or maybe I'm just dreaming an extremely vivid dream and I'm going to wake up any moment now. Something was'nt right. I even pinch my arm just in case. No dice. John's still here and drooling in my bed. I'm still equally half undressed and trying to pinpoint exactly when in the evening I lost my mind. And it's past one in the morning. I resume staring at Watson. I stare long and hard, hoping maybe somehow I can make him levitate out of the room all the way back upstairs, boxers and all.

Instead, John snorts again and rolls over onto his side. Onto _my_ side of the bed. Arm flung out, legs splayed, bed sheets completely hogged. And he's _drooling on my side of the mattress_. I stand up, almost jump away. I don't like this. I don't like how unfamiliar John suddenly seems. I really don't like him doing-all of this. Most of all I could'nt deduce more than his appearance, not anything on the main question; "What Happened?" I make a few aborted attempts to poke him, jab him, push him until I end up just digging my hands under him and shoving him over to the other side of the bed. And all he does is grunt before sinking straight back to sleep.

"John, get out," I command.

I wait for a response. Silence. Followed by a snore. Bloody hell.

So, I say louder, "John." Pause. Silence. I decide an air of melodrama might rouse John into action. "Your hair is on fire."

"Shut up, Sher," comes his slurred reply, drunk.

I frown. He's out. Too much to drink most likely. John's not going anywhere, I realise. I either have to banish myself to the couch for the night, the empty bed upstairs, or dare myself to share the same sleeping space as John. I ponder all the possibilities. Maybe I could throw a glass of water on him. A bucket of water. A bucket of _ice_. Maybe I really could set his hair on fire. His computer. Or maybe I could just shove him and shove him until he lands on the floor with a thump.

I swallow. John resumes snoring. I frantically rub my hair until I decide I am too tired to stay standing like this. I'll sleep first, I decide to myself. Sleep then stage a resistance against John to make sure this never, ever, _ever_ happens again. Ever. Never ever. Ever. I very slowly creep back into bed, keeping a close watch on the man the entire time. No sudden moves. No. Sudden. Moves. Oh, crap. I realise as I lie down that my back is right on the spot John drooled. Not going to move, though. Staying right where I am. I stare up at the ceiling, frozen while listening to John snore. Eventually, somehow, I end up falling asleep.

When I open my eyes again, it's morning. I'm warm and cozy. Still naked the waiste up. Not even a bedsheet. But my hands are warm. Especially my right one. It's wedged between two pillows.

I suddenly scramble back with a start. Those are not two pillows. John's neck is laying on my fingers, my arm's numb. I reach up to something wet on my chin and realize I've been drooling. While pressed up behind John. _Snuggling_ What the hell. What the _hell_. I'm wiping my hand over my chin repeatedly when John rouses and begins to roll to his back. I freeze. He yawns, scrubs his face and then looks across at me and I count to four in my head before his eyes widen with the same abstract terror I've got gripping at my brain. We stare at each other for a while. A long while. Until I finally blurt out, "You snore. And you drool."

The man sputters a bit, a cocky grin replaced his washed expression. "No, but your a good dancer." Wait what? Was'nt expecting that. John laughed, switching over into the bed his chin perked up. "Last night, at the pub?" He continued, eye brows waggling up and down with a self giggle. I laid point blank. Analyzing this, Pub, pu-oh no. That was our job. Get in, get out with the information, send it to Lestrade. We were good. "This is ridiculous." I groaned, hands resting on my face. Leaning over he patted my shoulder. Warm, welcoming. "You needed it Sherlock." Sliding back, John rose from his spot both arms high.

"Speaking of which, Greg's still waiting for us." I propped my back against the head board, my arms crossed. John paused retrieving his clothes and the next thing I knew my world went suddenly dark. "get up, you lazy sod." The man told me as if nothing had happened. Reaching up I pulled down the shirt from my head. I must of had a bewildered face that moment because I looked up quite startled when John bursted out laughing. "No, this is not a dream," Both eyes narrowed at that point and I'm taking he took the hint, because John ventured out the door. I could hear a muffled laugh on the other side.

The only other thing I could find odd about this was John's temperature was higher than it should. His skin two degree's hotter. But one things for sure, that was the most weirded'st interaction we've had together so far. The bed-sheets was a bonus.

No seriously, my blogger was now officially titled, A freaken sheet hogger.

Fin.

**(Well folks there you have it. A short one shot between the two men we have grown to love. Cluedo, man. That game and all of it's painful memories. *Gulps* Sherlock, put the knife down...*Frowns* Dean, please don't encourage him)**


End file.
